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"Drinks on me, spikey!"
Wolfwood lets loose a boisterous laugh, only partially to blame on the shots of whiskey he’d coerced them to just earlier. To lighten the mood, Vash thinks. Wolfwood’s always had that way about him, perceptive, at least when it comes to Vash.
The thoughts are knocked out of him when Wolfwood’s hand smacks the top of his head. He pets his so-called ‘needles’ flat and then slaps Vash across the back with such enthusiasm that he chokes on the ale he'd just dropped his last precious $$15.00 on. It’s exactly those $$15.00 which Vash spews onto a very disgruntled bartender.
“Oh, god–” Vash punches his chest with a wheeze, doubling over on the counter. He sees the stars on the heavily lacquered surface. You’d think the guy was trying to kill him or something.
(In the most roundabout, ineffective ways.)
It’s Wolfwood that tosses a napkin at the bartender’s face. It lands with perfect accuracy.
“Sorry,” he says without an ounce of remorse. “How about another you don’t spray on the poor barkeep?”
The last third of the amber liquid swirls sadly at the bottom of Vash’s glass.
“Are you pouting?”
“No!” Yes. “Only if you’re paying–”
Vash is broke. Broke-broke. Meryl’s the one who footed the bill at the inn so they could– you know– sleep on an actual bed and by her strong insistence, bathe. Wolfwood may be sketchy, but Vash knows behind that gruff exterior lies a genuinely good guy. Plus, free is free. When is he one to look a gift Thomas in the mouth?
A night of drinking might do him some good. Wolfwood had chastised him for being ‘ so damn serious’ today . This is his own way of getting Vash to loosen up. He hides it well, behind the thick glass of beer, but Vash knows this is about him.
Wolfwood grins. It’s the gleam of pointed teeth, pinching down on the end of a lit cigarette. “Whaddaya starin’ at?” He asks, blowing a puff of smoke into his face.
Vash coughs.
“Want one?” It is offered with the flick of his wrist and a carton gestured towards him. "What? Don't trust 'ole Wolfwood? I'm a man of god, as trustworthy as they come."
A detail, Vash doubts, but he smiles all the same. The company is welcome… as is the wallet.
“How about a lollypop instead?”
Wolfwood rolls his eyes, “Those are for the kids. Not a chance.”
“Ah, my loss, and to think I was looking forward to it.” His eyes crease up from a smile, and Wolfwood frowns. A little too attentive, eh?
Part of him wonders what they taste like. The artificial plant flavor. He’s seen Wolfwood bite down on a few, crunching the crystals against his back molars. That, if he were to run his tongue over those teeth would they taste of burnt tobacco or of sweet syrup?
Ah, too far. His face heats, and it is not from the drink alone.
"How about another, friend?" Vash winks at the bartender in hopes that his charming personality will win the man over from his soggy disposition.
(No such luck.)
"Make it two. No… four! Bet I can drink the infamous Vash the Stampede under the table,” Wolfwood nudges him in the side and intercepts the next glass that slides their way. In a dramatic motion, he chugs the whole thing. The bottom of the empty mug slams to the counter, and he beckons again, "Another!"
"Hold on,” Vash scrambles, inhaling the last of his beer. Bad idea. Right in the windpipe. “I didn't know we started!"
A sliver of a conscience scolds him for this behavior. The voice it takes is oddly familiar.
It’s… probably a good thing Meryl went to bed early.
Humanoid Typhoon strikes again. Vash can see the headlines and exaggerated rumors whispered in his wake. Guard your kegs lest you let the waterhole run dry. It's not like Vash drinks a lot. Well, not often. Blah, blah plant biology. He’s not exactly built to process such concentrated toxins.
“A lightweight?” Vash balks with offense and hiccups, immediately proving himself wrong. “I ain’t no–”
Wolfwood jostles him and drags sloppy, prying fingers along his arms. They catch on the buckles and creases of his jacket before settling on his face. His palms squish Vash’s cheeks together, inspecting him with a strange intensity. Why’s it so hot? When did it get so hot?? Vash boils under his collar, plucking at his coat and slurring on a nonsensical whine.
“ Why,” he puffs out. “ Are your hands … s o … s weaty?”
“Sweaty ? You’re the one that looks like he’s gonna pass out.”
He’s not going to pass out. He’s in tip top shape– could take on the world! Vash’s protests come crashing down when the room around him spins. In it, there’s a flash of dark hair, a suit with a daring number of buttons left undone, a hand that stretches out towards him but misses. Vash staggers. The thin filament bulbs overhead sparkle like shooting stars, and Vash is, in turn, faced with a scowl. Not from Wolfwood but from the surly bar patron he careens into. The shatter of glass quickly follows.
“ W-woah,” he searches for his footing, loses it, and slips to a puddle of spilled beer. “Sorry there. Didn’t, uh, see ya–”
There’s a click above him. Vash’s head raises to see the man– some mercenary by the looks of the guy– resting his hand over the holster of his gun, now unclasped.
“Dontcha know who you’re dealin’ with around here?”
Vash opens his mouth, but Wolfwood butts in. “Don’t worry about it, pal. What? Want another one? A beer and a confession. Two for one on the house!”
“Thought you said you weren’t a priest,” Vash grumbles, and Wolfwood gives him a kick to the shin.
So, he’s lying.
The merc huffs, “Pay up, and I’ll let it slide. Otherwise, your friend is going to have to make amends.”
Wha–
Vash sniffles. Can’t he have one night without trouble? No? That’s asking for too much.
“ Are you crying?” Wolfwood hisses under his breath.
“No!” He blubbers. “Urk… maybe.”
Wolfwood groans, “Go ahead and add to it the tab.”
“I’ll need to see some cash first. All $$3,000 of it.”
The good will has run dry. Wolfwood begins to pat himself down. Vash knows this game– the sheepish look on his face and the stalling tactic of a conveniently misplaced wallet. He begins to have the sinking feeling this is going to be a problem. Worse, with the entire establishment’s attention cast on the duo making fools of themselves.
Wolfwood quickly drops to a crouch, whispering behind his hand, “So… I’m broke.”
"Broke?!"
The hammer of a pistol notches into place behind Vash’s head, and Wolfwood curses under his breath. “Did you have to shout it?” He exclaims at equal, if not louder volume.
The first gunshot drags Vash to his feet out of second nature, drunk or not. And the second has him barreling into the door with a yelp, yanking Wolfwood along by the collar of his shirt.
“ Whaddya think you’re–”
“Duck!”
Vash tumbles to the ground when the wooden frame splinters from the spray of a shotgun. It rests on the counter. The barrel aimed at him. Sheesh, even the bartender? They really managed to royally piss off the entirety of the bar in only two hours. A new record for Vash, and he’s been the cause of at least…. ten… no, fifteen alcohol related shootouts.
(Ouch.)
Wolfwood falls with him, sputtering a curse when he lands square on Vash’s stomach.
"Do you think you can just get away with robbery around here?" The barkeep shouts, cocking his gun a second time in threat.
Wolfwood waves his hands, "Not robbery. A simple mistake. We could offer our services in ex—” Another shot rings alarmingly close to Vash’s ear, and Wolfwood drags him through the busted doorframe. “Fuck this, dine and dash. I’ll offer a prayer about it later. Just–”
“Wait, that guy, ain’t that Vash the Stampede? The one with the bounty?”
“No way, didn’t you see him simpering under the bar? But the resemblance…”
Vash laughs nervously and scrambles to his feet in the wake of shattering glass and shouting. A look-alike might get them a few million double dollars, regardless, but Vash doesn’t have time to get caught.
Graciously, Wolfwood catches the crook of his elbow, leading him out on the street with a tersely huffed, “We’re running, c’mon. Isn’t that what you’re good at?”
Vash thinks he should take offense at the snarky way it rolls off his tongue, but he’s too busy dodging, you know, bullets.
“The hell,” Wolfwood says once the sound of gunfire and restless mercs and bounty hunters alike begin to dim. At this rate, the whole town will be on their asses. Wouldn’t even be a first for him. He drags Vash into a dark alley, fishing in his pockets for a lighter he appears to have dropped in the altercation. “The rumors really weren’t exaggerated. Typhoon Vash, huh?”
He fiddles with the unlit cigarette hanging from his lips before tucking it back sorrowfully to his pocket.
It’s not even his fault.
“You never intended to pay,” Vash points out. Wolfwood scoffs, but doesn’t rebuke him. “Things wouldn’t have gone sour if you hadn’t–”
“Quiet.” Fingers curl over his mouth, a sloppy attempt to keep his mouth shut, despite Vash's muffled but noisy whines. He sputters when Wolfwood shoves him into a tight crevice between the next building and a ladder leading up to the roof. The rungs dig into his back, and Wolfwood checks over his shoulder towards the street.
The voices of the men from the bar echo off the stone walls just mere feet from them.
The tips of his fingers push against Vash’s lips, then teeth, sliding over the hard enamel. Does he even notice? Wolfwood doesn’t look at him, still preoccupied with their pursuers.
They taste of burnt cigarettes, of gunpowder, and the grit of sand. It’s not pleasant, but Vash doesn’t care. He moans, shamelessly , on the fingers in his mouth, and that, oh that, brings Wolfwood’s attention back to him.
"Tryna get us killed?"
The slant of his words reveal an amusement that Vash did not expect. Is it the drink? Wolfwood hasn’t seemed drunk since they went on the run. Gunfire does have a way of sobering one up, but… Vash doubts that is the whole picture.
“No,” Vash whispers. Not once does Wolfwood actually remove his fingers from where they nudge the soft flesh of his cheek, nor does Vash ask him to.
When was the last time someone held him? The last time he’s been in such close proximity to another? The last time he felt… the warmth of a body other than his own, of fingers forming divots on his flesh, of breaths shared in thin mingled space?
And, of a heart, hammering against his open palm. Wolfwood’s does, so very much alive .
No, being held hostage doesn’t count. Nor the time that old lady clocked him in the face for sneaking a bite of pie. The crocodile tears hadn’t worked then either. Maybe, he’s losing the cute factor.
(Nah.)
Wolfwood angles himself against Vash, blocking him from the street view. Their chests press together in the sliver of space, and in the adjustment, his leg slides between Vash’s thighs.
Oh.
Vash’s cheeks are already ruddy from the alcohol, and then, worsened by the drool that slips from the corner of his mouth. It rolls down his chin with Wolfwood’s fingers still hooked behind his teeth.
Vash squirms, barely muffles the whine that gurgles from his throat. It’s hot. His body. This night. Everything. The knee between his legs pushes against his cock, and he just might think it’s intentional with how it goes straight to his dick.
A drinking contest lost. Vash sent on the run again. And then, a boner added as the cherry on top.
Just another less-than-average night for Vash the Stampede.
“Quit moving,” Wolfwood hisses. His fingers finally pop free from his lips left wet with spit. Instead, they find themselves digging into his waist. His shirt bunches, hiked higher by Wolfwood’s manhandling– a peek of stomach, scars, and stitching revealed by it.
Vash gulps.
Wolfwood looks like he’s either going to kick his ass or fuck him in this dusty, dark alley. His imagination runs with the latter, and his dick throbs. Okay, so maybe it's been a while. A long time. Not something he’s exactly shouting about. A $$60,000,000,000 bounty doesn’t make for a riveting lovelife.
(Neither does a murderous brother.)
“I’m going to die,” he melts dramatically into Wolfwood’s arms. His hands run the length of Vash’s sides, squeezing and heaving him closer. Closer and closer. Vash can almost taste the scent of sweat and faded vetiver aftershave which clings to his neck.
Wolfwood was right. Vash is going to pass out… and faceplant right into his chest.
“No you’re not. I won’t let you.” Wolfwood scolds him like a child. Well, until Vash rubs a little too noticeably against his thigh. The gasp hitches in his throat, stuck there by the sharp accusation, “ Are you getting off, right now?”
Vash makes an indiscernible, pathetic sound.
“Fucking hell, Vash.”
“P-please, I–”
Those dark eyes widen on him. His hands grow still, and Wolfwood freezes. They linger there in this not quite intimacy– too close to deny it, yet not enough to satisfy. Were Vash to move just an inch, it would be Wolfwood’s lips he’d feel against his instead of his own tongue wetting them. Instead, stubble brushes against his cheek, and Wolfwood takes his chin in his hand.
“We are not talking about this, okay?”
Vash nods his head quickly, enthusiastically.
And, that is it. The push, the closure, whatever Wolfwood needed to freely cross this boundary. The next breath Vash takes is swallowed down on lips, teeth, and tongue. It’s cut with the faint flavor of bitter tobacco mixed with the sweetness he’d imagined.
Wolfwood acts fast with a messy desperation that matches Vash’s own. Moans and spit spill between them. Vash’s thumb catches on Wolfwood’s cheek and snakes around to nest at the man’s nape.
“Vash,” Wolfwood manages with a gulp. “ Ah, fuck.” He blinks and runs his gaze shamelessly below Vash’s exposed stomach to his erection on equal shameless display. Wolfwood’s own– yes, Vash allows himself a bit of pride in that development– warms his palm.
It’s thicker than his own with a nest of dark hair at the base. Precum wets tips, webbing between Vash’s curious fingers. It’s Wolfwood that takes them both in hand, sliding a rough hand over Vash’s own to guide their shafts together with a hiss.
That hiss is something he’ll remember for much longer than this night, as is the almost ethereal way Wolfwood whispers, “together.” It fills some little void left hollow in Vash with a budding ember. A warmth, he hadn’t even realized had been missing before. Funny how that works.
His lip trembles. Knees, too.
“Lightweight,” Wolfwood chides again, when his cock jumps against their mingled, twisted fingers. The air is sucked from his lungs. Wolfwood nips at the bob of his throat, and nearly purrs when Vash cums prematurely across their hands.
The noise that finds its way out of Vash’s mouth is neither a moan nor a scream but something between, frayed and raw from years spent untouched by a hand other than his own.
(It’s a sound heard from the street, but not a soul is brave enough to investigate the obvious moaning from its depths.)
“Shhh,” Wolfwood murmurs to Vash’s temple, continuing to rut himself against Vash’s spent cock. His lips sear– hotter than the desert, the sand, and the blaring stars overhead. “Always so loud.”
Vash can’t help it.
He whines again, just as noisy and obnoxious as Wolfwood teases him for. His hips stutter, shaking through an orgasm quickly wrung dry along Wolfwood’s cock. Cum slicks between them, and Wolfwood tuts his tongue when he finishes himself off from the warmth of Vash’s spend.
The exhaustion hits him like a truck. It’s as though every ounce of energy was sapped from his body along with his seed.
Wolfwood chuckles when he sways, catching Vash on one arm before he actually faceplants. “Oh, so that’s how it is, huh? One shot, and you’re out like a light?”
“ Mhm ,” Vash barely manages with heavier and heavier blinks.
Eventually, they shudder closed, and the last thing he hears before falling asleep is, “Don’t you worry. I’ll get you home safe.”